


Happenstance

by Seselt



Series: Hybrid Vigour [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, HP: EWE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seselt/pseuds/Seselt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger, divorced single mother of three, juggles life, love and vengeance. And Slytherin machinations.</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to 'Hunt Her and Pray'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hark the Herald

Hermione, now firmly and officially a Granger again, sat in the antechamber of the office of the Minister of Magic. She could hear raised voices but endeavoured not to eavesdrop. She had been waiting for quite a while but that did not surprise her. The Blame Hat was being passed around with gusto.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been resting on its laurels in the last few years. They had done very well immediately after the war when the scent of the chase was running high but once their quarry had run to ground there was rather too much shrugging and random digging. As Harry had often complained, Aurors were trained to catch people not solve crimes. And they had not recaptured Fenrir Greyback after he had escaped their custody.

She had spoken to Harry as soon as her field team had very thoroughly secured the werewolf, to give her friend advanced warning. Hermione had gone on the offensive when she had got back to Whitehall. Partly because she was angry her Department was in the firing line over what had happened. And partly because one of their own had caused it.

She had thrown Basingly to the wolves. Alas, only metaphorically. Her former second in command faced a decade in Azkaban. There had also been some grovelling on her part but Hermione was reasonably at peace with that. The Department of Magically Integrated Science, her brain-child, was safe for the moment.

So she waited for Harry to weather his own storm. Gawain Robards and the senior Aurors were getting a bollocking from Kingsley Shacklebolt not undeservingly in her opinion. Methodical scientific method was tedious sometimes but like the tortoise it got there in the end.

With luck she and Harry would come out of this with many of the reforms they wanted. They had spoken with, well spoken at, Minister Shacklebolt on many occassions. He had assured them both he was on their side or rather they were on his as he too wanted a more egalitarian Ministry.

She and the Minister had ended their own discussion amicably with Hermione giving him an invitation to her children's Namegiving. It had started out as a small event; just family and a few friends then Draco had offered to organise it. Agreeing had been a mistake, Hermione admitted but the flurry of inquiries and the trials and the endless paperwork had her running around like a mad hamster. At the time, she had thanked him for helping.

Her house was an exasperation too. She had to decommission all the wards after the mess left by the use of the Dark Arts and the subsequent investigation. That would take ages to do properly. Hermione certainly was not going to hustle the Warders into rushing. But the upshot of that was she was still at Malfoy Manor and Draco was presenting her children to society at a Yule ball. Give that man and inch and he would take a mile of velvet ribbon. At least it was red.

She still had her own room. There had been a lot of changes in her life, she only needed to look down at her porn-star cleavage to see that, but she was sticking to her guns. Malfoy Manor was a convenient refuge until she could return to the suburbs and Draco Malfoy was... was very flattering to her ego.

He wanted her. For all sorts of reasons, most selfish, but it was Hermione Granger he wanted not some amenable cheerleader. And the sex was fantastic. That should not matter but being able to reconnect with her body, to blot out what the werewolf had done to her was a balm. Sovereignty was Woman’s greatest desire according to Chaucer and Hermione agreed even if she had not liked the Wife of Bath’s Tale.

After much thought, she had found a psychologist who was also a Squib. There were a surprising number of mundane wizarding folk but no one spoke of them unless directly asked, even then reluctantly. Wittstein had mentioned her niece, who had just qualified from Cambridge, almost defensively as though anticipating pity. Hermione wanted to try counselling before resorting to a Pensieve. Thankfully the dreams had ended with the destruction of the ritual circle. 

She had a sudden idea of offering Squibs scholarships to Muggle universities. Her Department could use chemists, engineers and accountants to name just a few jobs. The MIS focussed their magic so there were plenty of positions where casting was unnecessary or limited. Philip Prewett came to mind. How had he paid for his studies? She should talk to him again.

The raised voices ceased. A group of disgruntled wizards and witches left the Minister’s office. Harry was on their heels, politic enough not to grin at what was evidently a significant victory. Hermione strolled with him to his cubicle; a cluttered space indistinguishable from his subordinates’ cubbyholes. He cleared a chair for her and perched a hip on what was probably his desk to give her a report.

The DMLE and the MIS would be working much closer now, more akin to a police force and its forensics department. The Unspeakables were in the posse too as a special detachment to facilitate the apprehension of very dangerous magical folk. Everyone would be expected to work together, which was the cause of the long faces as the Aurors were accustomed to being a force apart from the rest of the Ministry.

Unfortunately Kingsley Shacklebolt had not instigated a complete merger. The Minister was being a new broom but he was canny enough to sweep out the old in stages. They needed to be patient to get all the changes they wanted. Hermione related the meat and potatoes of her interview. Harry nodded at intervals. Progress was being made. With the increased lifespan of wizards and witches, they might even live to see all the restructuring they wanted.

“Ginny said to say we’re coming with bells on to Malfoy’s Ball.” He relayed the spousal message then added. “Ron’ll be there. Molly pulled rank. She has never been to a high society party. Her branch of the Prewetts was too moderate for the pure-blood aristocracy.” Harry shook his head. Hermione had extended invitations to all the Weasleys mostly so Ginny would not feel awkward and because she wanted to repair her relationship with Ron’s family, if not with Ron. “He’s bringing his fiancée.”

“Good for him.” Hermione said without rancour. Harry’s expression was eloquent. “I expect she is gorgeous.”

“Kasimira is pretty enough.” He admitted grudgingly. She glanced at his face and laughed.

“Are you saying that for me or Ginny?” Hermione asked, aware Mrs Potter had a jealous streak. As the only girl she had been more indulged than Ron but she had done without a lot of what she had wanted growing up. Now she had Harry, she was not going to give him up for anyone. Mr Potter shrugged.

“Bit of both.” He was about to say something when Hermione’s PDA chimed. She pulled out the bright red pad and tapped it. The device looked like the lovechild of a Remembrall and a Blackberry, and would function in both magical or technological surrounds. She had strongly resisted suggestions to dub it a tricorder. Hermione checked the message then put it away as it faded back to silver.

“Something has filled Lab Two with pink smoke.” She explained with a frown. Her PDA gave an alert whenever an alarm went off in her Department. Hermione was not going to miss anything again. Her pride still smarted over the embezzlement. She and Harry bade farewell. There was always more work to do.

The smoke turned out to be the result of a new graduate taking a shortcut. He had succeeded in turning himself and most of Lab Two’s interior cerise but had done no significant damage. Hermione had told him off then asked him to write up his notes so the MIS could investigate the pink for commercial uses. Being self-funding was a driving goal for the Department. She finished her work and headed back to Malfoy Manor later than she had anticipated.

Hermione headed upstairs and fed the triplets, winding down as she watched them suckle. Draco sauntered in about half an hour later calculating his arrival to spare him any work related rants. The witch was much mellower after she started nursing. He liked to keep his life as bereft of feminine screeching as possible. His ears had been permanently traumatised by six years of female Slytherin cat-fighting.

“Part one of your epic list is complete.” He annunciated, leaning like a marble angel against the window seat. He had a knack for making himself look good. A conga line of house elves brought shopping bags into the nursery for Show and Tell.

“You’ve finished?” Hermione surveyed the labels on the bags. She recognised some of them but others looked like imports. He had been further afield than Diagon Alley. With a negligent flick of his wand, he had the purchases displaying themselves for her inspection.

“Awaiting further instruction, mistress.” Draco teased. There were many interpretations of the title and it amused him to use it. He took Alec from her as she accepted Jonas from Suki the house elf. He was not fond of babies but the more she saw him with her children the harder it would be for her to leave, he believed. Hermione gave him a dry look.

“I can do my own shopping.” She defended and received the expected acquiescent nod. They had discussed it. Hermione was still surprised that he had listened. Not because she thought he would stick his fingers in his ears but because Ron had nodded then done whatever he liked. She had fallen to nagging to get him to do what they had agreed, which only made him more obstinate. She had been too involved to see what was happening. 

Out of the marriage Hermione was regaining perspective, and she had confirmed what she had always suspected. Draco was very smart. She did not have to explain three times the difference between enamel and anodised only for him to still buy the wrong casserole pot. And blame her. During the last year of their marriage it had taken nothing to offend Ron then he would huff around the house like a martyr.

Draco on the other hand both understood and allowed her to explain to reassure herself they both knew what she wanted. He was disinclined to exert himself without reward though. The price in this case was getting his own way. There was so much to do at work that Hermione had been fraught about finding gifts. She usually had everything organised by November so she could avoid the seasonal shopping crush but this year’s plans had been slightly disarranged.

Hermione laughed at her trickling thoughts. She was still on the hormonal roller-coaster. Slightly disarranged was like calling Ophelia a bit miffed. Draco had offered to act as her Second as though facing the December crowds was a duel. Feeling somewhat guilty she was not finding everything herself, she had given him a list and let him help. He had got everything right except for the babies’ things.

That Would Be Discussed Later. Hermione squashed her first instinct to object loudly and justify her requests. His changes were not snubs or criticisms of her choices. She was unlearning old reactions she had accrued from her ex-husband. It was a revelation to her how defensive she had become in her personal affairs. Every conversation with Ron had her donning full-plate.

Draco had done nothing wrong in indulging himself with expensive gifts for the triplets. The blankets would last and she would keep the silver rattles as heirlooms but paying him back would tax her budget. Getting him to accept money was a struggle too.

“Mother is coming home to the Manor for Yule. She has arranged for Father to go ice-fishing. The solstice season is too much for him.” Draco saw Hermione’s thoughts on her face and pressed on quickly. “I would like you to meet her.” He smiled inwardly, having given this next a lot of consideration. “I want to ask a favour of you. There will be a lot of festive teas and little get-togethers. I would be obliged if you would go with Narcissa to one of them.”

More for the Plan, Hermione thought sourly. She did not want to go to a festive tea and the little get-togethers could get together without her. But Draco was not asking her to eat petit-fours or make small talk with pure-bloods. He was asking her to be seen in public with his mother doing something Narcissa enjoyed so everyone would see Madam Malfoy had the Granger Seal of Approval.

“Just the one.” Hermione agreed and added the appointment to her calendar as ‘Mad Hatter’s Tea Party’.


	2. Jingle Bells

The bathtub in the master en suite could double as a swimming pool. Hermione pinned up her hair and climbed into the hot, foaming water. The scent of jasmine and mulled wine swirled decadently around her. She padded to the middle of the tub before sinking down to her chin. Draco drifted over to her, a silver salver floating alongside him. He offered her a cup of the spiced claret, which she accepted with a smile.

“Do you ever get used to wallowing in luxury?” Hermione inquired, sipping and sighing. Tension melted from her shoulders and she flexed her toes as she flushed pink. 

When her host had suggested they bathe before dinner she had been expecting a prosaic shower. Draco flicked a lock of hair off his face, slicking it back with a wet hand. The fine strands clung to his skull making him look like a Greek statue; Ares if she recalled correctly though Eros would have been more appropriate.

“I never wallow.” Draco chided gently, setting his cup down on the salver. He picked up his wand to cast a Bubble-Head charm before sliding under the foam. Hermione felt his approach as water displaced by the charm moved across her skin. His hands brushed over her thighs and she parted them to allow him access. A blush not solely from the hot water coloured her cheeks.

Draco took his time, making currents to caress her as he teased. He liked having her whole attention. Feeling wanton, Hermione poured herself another cup of mulled wine then slid a hand under the pink-tinted foam to toy with her breasts. She was quite at ease with this. So at ease, she wondered why. 

Hermione did not think of herself as a romantic. She’d had dreams, fantasies as any young woman did but most of them had popped like soap bubbles. This was not the time to start looking at life through rose-tinted glasses. She needed a level head to deal with Draco. 

Be sensible, Hermione told herself then his tongue swirled over her clitoris and sensible melted. She put her cup down on the tray but did not pour herself another drink. The wine was going to her head. She would let herself have a casual affair then when they had wrapped up the Plan, she would part from him amicably. Sensibly.

Hermione licked her lips, tasting cinnamon as her breath quickened. She moaned softly. Bracing her hands on the bottom of the tub she lifted her hips and Draco took his cue to slide two fingers into her. His thumb made lazy circles over her clitoris as he stroked. She could feel his erection rubbing against her leg. Bubbles tickled her nose, the air heady with jasmine. She could be in an Ottoman seraglio though Draco was certainly not qualified to serve in the harem.

What was that word that meant male harem? Hermione thought erratically as he kissed his way up her body. Selama? That sounded right but her mind drifted to ‘hide the salami’ and she half-laughed and half-gasped. Draco’s hands curled around her buttocks, lifting her onto him. His stiffness felt molten hot, igniting her as she sank down to his hips. She arched and sent water splashing out of the tub to spill across the marble floor.

They thrust and slithered through the water, making a cascade of waves as soap slick skin slipped against porcelain. Hermione heard a muffled curse when Draco bumped his head against the edge of the bath. As romantic as it was, making love underwater had its complications. She reached down and pulled him up. As his head crested the foam she kissed him tasting jasmine and Merlot.

Draco returned her kiss with heat. He guided her to the tiled edge and slid behind her. Clasping his hands over hers on the tub’s rim, he pushed back inside her before she had time to remember. They had not had sex with her on her knees before. Hermione usually shied from that position. It had too many bad memories from the werewolf. But two glasses of wine on an empty stomach and the reflection of them in the bathroom mirror calmed her.

Her nipples hardened as she rubbed across the cool tiles then the rhythm of their coupling sent splashes across her breasts. Hot and cold, hot and cold until all Hermione could feel as an insistent tingling throb. She made an inarticulate sound of arousal.

Hermione risked closing her eyes as he stroked. He was hot and demanding, his fingers weaving with hers so all she felt of him were his hands and his maleness. Her heart pounded, her pulse thunder in her ears. It was in her mind to stop, she almost asked him to withdraw even as she writhed against him but then he thrust across a deliciously sensitive place and she lost all thought as she climaxed.

He felt her tension as a vice grip around him. Draco groaned aloud as Hermione’s inner walls fluttered against him. He had wanted to hold out, to prolong this but her heat and the steamy bath took his control away. He came hard deep inside her groaning again. His hands slid up her arms hugging her to him. He could not get enough of the witch.

For her part, Hermione very firmly squared this with her conscience as therapy. Every time she slept with Draco, she reclaimed a little bit more of her body. She was hers again. Whole and competent if not at peace. And right now, quite hungry.

The evening meal was taken in the small dining room, an intimate chamber for little parties of only dozen or so. The house elves had set two places; one at the head of the table as befitting the scion of the Manor and one on his right hand for his lady. Out of respect for Draco, none of the staff had turned their noses up at Hermione. He would not have stood for it. The novelty of having three infants to care for also kept the staff amenable as did the absence of Master Lucius.

Hermione, for the sake of hospitality and courtesy, refrained from commenting unfavourably on Draco’s father. They did not discuss him at all, which was fortunate as there was very little she could say that was not unfavourable. And Draco had heard it all before. Lucius could be understood but he would not be forgiven.

She sat down as always feeling underdressed. When she had finally been allowed back into her house and realised just how much of a maelstrom had been made of her wards, Hermione had conceded she would not be living here any time soon. So she had packed everything she thought she would need. That had not included couture evening gowns, which she did not own, or cocktail dresses, of which she owned two.

In deference to the season, Hermione was wearing a green sweater knitted with holly and black slacks without cosmetics, jewellery or a bra. She had to restrain her bust at work but the nursing bras she had bought dug into her shoulders. A singlet was much more comfortable. However the lack of formal undergarments made her even more conscious of the sneering looks of Draco’s forebears in their portraits.

“Can’t we have dinner somewhere else? You have a dozen rooms for meals, not including the kitchen.” Hermione tried to keep the irritation out of her tone. “There is just the two of us. Why don’t we eat in the breakfast room? It has a lovely view of the garden.”

“It’s the breakfast room.” Draco sat down with the smile of a man getting what he wanted and the prospect of getting it again shortly after midnight. Hermione usually returned horny after giving the babies their night feed. His sarcasm got him a vexed glance from the witch, who was visibly trying to be a good houseguest. Something was bothering her. He decided to let her talk rather than distract her.

“I know it’s the breakfast room. You have a luncheon room, a tea room, a supper room, two dining rooms and feasting hall.” Hermione had investigated such parts of the Manor as seemed polite. She always took a house elf with her as chaperone and guide if she got lost in the labyrinthine house. “Not to mention all those little parlours.” She felt like she should be wearing a crinoline and be expecting Queen Victoria for crumpets. “I’m stuck here and this is not a friendly place.”

“The Manor is designed to awe.” Draco poured Hermione a glass of pumpkin juice. She watched her alcohol consumption carefully, limiting herself to two glasses in the hour after she had nursed in the evening, no more and no other time. That sort of care boded well for his children. But that would not happen if she left his home because it was not affable. “I have never considered it a pleasant place to live. It’s comfortable enough. That is all I require.”

“Who are you trying to impress? I found a room with shelves of periwigs when I was looking for the library. Even Bertie looked surprised.” Hermione toyed with her cutlery, realised she was fidgeting and sternly told herself to stop. At this point, Bertie the house elf arrived with the first course of the meal. He served Draco then Hermione before excusing himself before the witch could thank him.

“You would like to make some changes.” He hid his smirk in the dark recesses of what was probably his soul. Draco addressed himself to his salad to give her time to formulate a polite response. She did not want to ask a favour of him or presume on his hospitality. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“I shouldn’t complain. You've been very kind.” Hermione began. He had been kind but the Manor was intimidating. “But I think it would be more sensible to only use a few rooms. There is just the two of us here.” She moved on hastily from that lest he think she was trying to move in. “And once I am home there will just be you so perhaps if we could relax the formalities a little?” She stopped before she added something like ‘we are living in the twenty-first century’.

Draco could not resist a smile this time. He made a mental note to buy something expensive for the Grangers in thanks for ensuring their daughter was such a nice young woman. Hermione fought back annoyance and tears. Bloody hormones. She could not do anything without risking an emotional scene. She took a long drink. Draco was amused at her reticence, which made annoyance win the race through her veins. 

“I am not a formal person, you know that. I don’t want to disarrange your system however.” Hermione managed that without sounding temperamental. She felt a headache build. Magic was tied to emotions. She had been lucky during her pregnancy but now Hermione wanted to stamp her foot and crack the floor. A new wand made her lack of control worse. She had split a ream of paper at work trying to do her screen-capture charm.

“There is no system per se.” He did not smirk but he wanted to. He reminded himself not to overplay his hand. She was quick to notice details. “Draw up a list of the changes and we’ll go over it but no more business at the dinner table.” 

Draco considered what he would get out of her by agreeing. It was not a matter of saying outright ‘I did this so you do that’ he was much more subtle. She saw him cooperating and being the fair-minded woman she was Hermione would want to reciprocate.

He wanted to know her, not just Biblically. The more she told him the easier it would be to steer her where he wanted. It was creeping up on him that where he wanted her was at his side. His infatuation, as Narcissa termed it, was not waning. Because he had not felt this before he had checked he was not under a glamour or love spell. Hermione had not used any magic on him. No one else had either.

He was simply getting to like her, nearly unheard of in a spouse in pure-blood circles. Draco stabbed an asparagus spear, dimly aware he was eating his second course and he had scraped his plate in an infraction of dining etiquette. He was thinking of her as a potential wife. There was no ‘if only’. Now he was manipulating himself. Well, he wanted her. So that excused everything.


	3. Joy to the World

Later that night, Hermione slid out of bed and tapped her alarm clock. The soft insistent beeping so familiar from her childhood worked better than magic to rouse her while Draco slept through unperturbed. They had gone to bed together out of habit. That did not sound romantic but as she belted her dressing gown and padded out of the room, she smiled.

They were in his bed. She joined him there because it suited her. He was not permitted to invite himself into her bed. That was her private space. She changed in her room then they tucked themselves in together. It was nice. She slept better with him in the bed. 

Hermione walked quietly to the nursery. Suki was there watching over the babies and she gave the house elf a nod as she sat down in the fat bolstered chair. According to the schedule, Lind and Jon were first. She settled her daughter, who fussed if she did not have everything as she liked it but would nurse happily once arranged. Her younger son was more fractious. He was slow to latch on and would get bored halfway though, either falling asleep or crying. Hermione smoothed his hair with her fingertips until he suckled freely. 

She had consulted a paediatric nurse at a clinic in London, as a private patient not through the NHS. She wanted to limit her children’s Muggle medical records until they were cured. The nurse had weighed and measured and reassured. The triplets were growing very well. They would be alright, so long as she ensured they got plenty of protein and was mindful of possible anaemia. That was her own research, which soothed more worries. Other than a tendency to turn into wolves, her children were perfectly healthy.

And Fenrir Greyback would never ever see them.

Louise wanted to show them off at the Granger Christmas party on the 22nd and as it was a week after the full moon, Hermione had agreed. It would mean more lying to relatives but that could not be helped. Their family had given her parents a lot of support. Obliging them with a happy occasion was the least she could do.

Draco had sworn on his wand to be on his best, most mundane behaviour. It would look very good for him if he could boast of attending a Muggle party. And his presence avoided a lot of awkward questions.

Jon started to fuss. He was tired of his midnight snack. Hermione swapped him for Alec, who was easily amused with food. Suki sang to the baby and he settled, returning the nursery to tranquillity. He might be small but he could make his displeasure heard loud and clear.

She was flushed when she returned to Draco’s bedroom. Hermione had not realised how much of a sensual experience breastfeeding would be. The books she had read on the subject had glossed over that aspect or perhaps because of the magic used on her to restore her body everything was extra sensitive.

Had she been alone, she would have taken matters into her own hands. The weather was icy enough to discourage the other traditional method of a cold shower. However, Draco was awake when she returned to bed. Hermione rather suspected he had an alarm of his own to wake him when she had finished nursing. She could have called him out on it but what was the harm? She had mostly grown out of her urge to prove herself right all the time.

He watched her with hooded eyes as she removed her dressing gown and pyjamas. Draco turned the blankets back for her so she could join him on his side of the bed. He was already hard and quickly rid himself of his nightclothes. She climbed on, he put his hands on her breasts then they just moved against each other until they were moaning. It was so wonderfully simple.

Afterwards Hermione lay with her head on Draco’s shoulder and his arm around her. She smiled as she drifted off towards sleep, thinking idly that life was funny sometimes. Slumber claimed her before she could expound on that thought.

Morning happened too soon. Hermione went through her routine half-asleep, lamenting the absence of her morning coffee or a Pepperup potion. Hot carob was not the same but she perked up in time for the early Acquisitions meeting and gave an efficient briefing to the MIS staff. Their jobs were safe, at the Minister’s personal promise. The office tension level sank as though the dam had burst.

Hermione took in the expressions of almost manic relief. It had not been an easy year and it was in her purview to give everyone a half-day. She did so, adding that Saturday was also a Departmental off-day, meaning anyone who had applied for early holidays got to start them Friday night. Those who took their Yule holidays in January, mostly the non-parents, rejoiced at the free weekend.

Her feeling of self-indulgence eased at the obvious relief of her co-workers, Hermione tidied her desk, sent off correspondence and took herself back to the Manor. She usually Apparated back for the triplets’ noon feeding but being a little early was unlikely to cause offence to her host. Hearing Draco’s voice as she entered the house, Hermione breezed into the front parlour in time to see Pansy Parkinson’s breasts before the witch hastily closed her robes.

Hermione felt certain there was some witty remark she could make to cover her surprise but all she said was 'hello'. Her voice was steady. She was not even angry. She was not anything at the moment except slightly envious of Ms Parkinson’s pert breasts. The former Slytherin witch was wearing nothing but French knickers and stockings under her robes.

“Goodbye, Granger.” Pansy looked down her nose at her in an expression that had not changed since they were in school. She took her knee off the settee where she had been crouching astride Draco and swanned out of the room trailing Chanel and arrogance. Hermione resisted an urge to trip her up as she clicked past in stiletto heels. The witch Disapparated as soon as she was out the front door.

“If you hadn’t come home early I could’ve got a blowjob.” Draco remarked, thinking very, very fast. He expected Hermione to be angry and hurt. Considering Ron’s infidelities such a reaction would not be surprising. There was no way he could convince her ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ or ‘it’s just a misunderstanding’. He buttoned up his pants carefully. Pansy could be very determined. He had been interested to see how far she was willing to go to convince him to take her back.

“Call her back then.” Hermione replied tartly. She noticed she was still standing in the doorway, uncertain what to feel.

“I don’t want her.” Draco looked at Hermione over the back of the sofa and then suddenly she was striding across the room. She had her hand fisted in his hair before she was quite sure herself what she was doing. Their lips met forcefully as she straddled him.

Hermione grabbed his wrists and stretched his arms out along the top of the settee, curling his hands around the ends in an unspoken command that he was not allowed to touch her. She rubbed herself roughly against him. She had worn a skirt today so the bulge in his trousers pushed across her mound, close but not close enough.

“Hermione.” Draco said as she stood. Hermione stepped out of her cotton knickers and stuffed them in his mouth, stilling any protest. She freed him from his trousers, yanked down his boxers then took his dick into her hands. Meeting his gaze, Hermione stroked him until he groaned. She kicked off her shoes and sank into his lap forcing him deep inside her.

“Do you want me?” Hermione rocked her hips fast making him screw his eyes shut as he nodded. She rode him hard, wanting the friction, wanting to feel in command. His fingers clenched into the upholstery and he bit down on the improvised gag to restrain himself.

Hermione pulled her sweater and blouse off over her head and unfastened her bra as she bounced on him like a pogo-stick. She groped herself, cupping her breasts. They ached and heat built between her legs. She felt wild still uncertain whether she was angry or aroused.

Dragging her knickers out of his mouth, Hermione forced Draco’s lips down onto a nipple. She held him there with an arm wrapped around his neck still working herself fast on his erection. He suckled roughly, using his teeth to make her moan. She made a noise in the back of her throat like a scream and climaxed.

Draco jerked his hips upwards, blowing his load with a muffled groan. He let go of the settee to hold her tight. He had not expected this. No complaints but he did not want Hermione rushing off. Switching his lips to her other nipple, he murmured a modified engorgement charm. His wand was up his sleeve. A useful trick he had learned from her so he could cast the useful trick he had learned from a courtesan. His dick stiffened back to full attention.

Hermione let him lay her onto her back. She lifted one of her legs so she could rest an ankle on the top of the settee and Draco could stroke to his full length. Their second coupling was as furious as the first. She scratched her nails down his back. He left a love-bite on her neck. One of the house elves ducked into the room to investigate the noise before hastily retreating. Neither of them noticed.

When Draco gasped out her name as he climaxed, Hermione nearly cried. She moaned instead and wrapped her legs around his hips to join him in orgasm. They rested sprawled on the settee catching their breath.

“Pansy wants to resume our relationship.” Draco panted, kissing her tenderly. It was always a sound tactic to offer an explanation to a woman before she demanded it and to a man after he demanded it.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Hermione sighed. She smiled wryly at him. “She popped by to give you an early Christmas present, did she?”

“She strolled in as bold as brass.” He confirmed, smiling back relieved she was not cursing him. “She barely gave Bertie time to announce her before she was showing me La Perla.”

“Would you have slept with her?” Hermione asked then regretted it. They were not in a relationship. She should not expect him to be faithful. But it was a courtesy she would have extended to him. Draco smoothed his hands down her back and elected to be honest.

“I would have let her suck me off then kicked her out.” His expression hardened. “I hold a grudge.”

“While we’re...” She stopped, trying to find a good way of saying what she wanted without sounding needy or salacious. Draco nodded. He understood, and was thankful she was not a Legilimens because the exultant thought resounding in his head was ‘one step closer’. He kissed her again then glanced at her watch.

“You have a lunch date.” The wizard reminded her then watched as she scrambled to gather her clothes and restore herself to dignity. Draco covertly pocketed her knickers, denying all knowledge of their location. He even hunted under the settee for them. Hermione abandoned the search to hurry upstairs, leaving him to don his trousers and wonder if he could convince her to let him take her lingerie shopping in Paris.


	4. O Come All Ye Faithful

Traditionally a Nameday was held one moon after the infant’s birth but at the end of November Hermione had been on the hunt for Fenrir Greyback and had chosen her children’s safety over custom. Besides, the very best Naming present she could give her sons and daughter was the incarceration of their sire.

So Alexander Fleming Granger, Rosalind Franklin Granger and Jonas Salk Granger were having their names formally bestowed upon them on the less mystical 39th day after their birth, which usefully coincided with a Friday night.

She was not religious enough to want a christening though Granny Granger, a staunch C of E, had been disappointed. Nana Penrith had been more supportive; her opinion of organised religion having soured after a falling out with her Methodist pastor over his harsh line against homosexuality. Her Muggle family would see the babies at Christmas, leaving tonight to the arcane.

Hermione hastily adjusted her frock in the dressing mirror. Pregnancy had made her cups runneth over and she had already discarded her other cocktail gown because of the ebullience of her cleavage. This one was the classic little black dress with a sweetheart neckline, which postpartum showed slightly more than she liked. But there was not time to find another. 

She had planned to transfigure the dress but she had got home late and in a rush. Hasty wandwork and silk did not mix well. Hermione did not want all her seams coming undone at midnight. People were knocking downstairs as she hopped down the hall trying to hurry and put on her shoes at the same time.

“You know we could leave them on the doorstep.” Draco remarked when Hermione reached his side with a flushed face. She shook her head.

“They’re my friends.” The witch did not say any more. There was no need. She would go to war for them. Indeed, she had. Bertie, wearing a red tablecloth for the occasion, opened the door for the guests. Louise and Martin Granger with Harry and Ginny Potter, bang on time. Hermione smiled. She would wager large portions of her soul that her parents had ensured Harry’s punctuality.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Draco said with a not quite choked smirk as the Goldenboy and Ms Weasel crossed his threshold. He greeted Hermione’s parents with every civility then bowed over Ginny’s hand, gauging very close to the mark how much of a snub he could give Potter without being told off.

“I’ve been here in a professional capacity before.” Harry commented, offering his hand for Draco just to see if it would rile him. They shook hands like sumo wrestlers bowing; no mercy and only ritual politeness.

“Mum and the Weasley posse will be here shortly.” Ginny left the two wizards to compare sizes and hugged Hermione. “Bill and Fleur may be a little late. Victoire turned herself into a cat or tried to. She’s a lovely tabby colour now.”

“I remember how that feels.” Hermione laughed then met her mother’s curious glance. She had not mentioned the Polyjuice incident to them and blushed with embarrassment. That was bloody hormones too as well as her inability to lie directly to her parents.

“Transfiguration class was always exciting.” Draco came to her rescue, smoothing over the moment. He knew Louise well enough to expect further inquiries but Mrs Granger had a dislike for scenes so she went along with the repartee. They were saved from finding something to restart the conversation by the arrival of Neville Longbottom and his date.

“Hello, Miss Lestrange.” Hermione had a moment of amnesiac surprise before recognising the dark haired witch. She worked with her, for hell's sake. But Nemesia had perfected the art of going unnoticed. Not so much drab as carefully neutral.

“Good evening, Madame Granger.” She said courteously, following Neville inside and staying in the tall man's shadow. “It is nice to be here.”

“It's nice of Neville to bring you.” Hermione flicked a glance at her friend, who avoided giving any explanations by offering her a large brightly wrapped parcel.

“I had no idea what to get so I got lots of it.” Neville apologised, trying not to feel as uncomfortable as he did in Malfoy's house. His grandmother had said the house was big. She had gone to a cotillion here once, some summer thing. The front hall reminded him of a mausoleum.

They sorted themselves out, migrating to the ballroom where the guests could mingle while she and Draco did circuits between the party and the door to greet arrivals. Ginny whistled at the spread, unselfconscious. She gone to enough flashy parties with the Harpies to get over the novelty but she was impressed by Malfoy’s efforts.

“He likes her.” Ginny said in a soft aside to Harry. “I’m sure of it. Seriously likes her. So ease off.”

“He’s a good liar.” Harry kept his voice down, heading for the buffet. They had skipped dinner in the rush to get ready. Their babysitter had been late, for which Dudley had apologised profusely. He had volunteered after Harry had made a casual remark when they had got together for a drink. They saw each other occasionally. Dudley had a job in a gym quite close to the Potters’ flat so it was no trouble for him. But it was a big step in the rebuilding of an amicable relationship.

“And if he hurts her we’ll turn him into a ferret.” Ginny whispered, kissing her husband on the cheek before leaving him for Neville and his shy witch. She was dying to know how serious they were.

Harry diverted himself with king prawns, telling himself sternly to leave work at work. Lucius was still out of the country and it was quite possible he was not involved at all. But it rankled. Martin Granger patted him on the shoulder as he headed for the little pastry things and they got to chatting about cars. Hermione’s dad was a motoring buff whereas Harry was a novice considering his first purchase. Flooing with two small kids was a chore.

Louise, alone for the moment, sighed. She let herself cross her fingers and prayed this would turn out well. Hermione was happy. She could see it in her eyes; in the look her daughter had flashed Draco when he covered her embarrassment. 

It was just a pity he was a wizard. Louise would have preferred Hermione to date a normal person for a while. Someone who owned a stereo. Lively but phantom music filled the ballroom, slightly unsettling her. Her peace of mind was not bolstered by the sound of Molly Weasley’s strident voice in the hallway.

Hermione had smiled genuinely when Arthur and Molly arrived. She recognised Arthur’s dress robes from her wedding to Ron. And from every other Weasley wedding she had attended. Mr Weasley had come up in the Ministry in recent years but he was still careful with money. Molly too. She was wearing her favourite dress; ginger and flowing loose like her hair. All three of them were wearing the same outfit they had at the last Weasley party Hermione had attended.

Ron’s robes made their frugal wardrobe choices look shabby. The rich blue contrasted vibrantly with his hair, heightening his tan. He looked very good and Hermione would have bet a vital organ he had not picked his clothes out himself. The witch draped on his arm wore an azure gown a few shades lighter than Ron’s, which set off her ash blonde hair and sky blue eyes. There could be no doubt as to who she was. And she was gorgeous.

“Glad you could make it.” Hermione said conventionally, smiling and shaking hands. She had drifted away from the hugs she had once merited except from George, who was happy to hug any woman willing. His wife did not mind. Rumour had it she had witch-marked her husband somewhere very personal with ‘property of Angelina Johnson-Weasley’.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Arthur lied. Molly had made such a production of being invited to the party and Ginny had made their attendance so big an issue that he would have quite happily stayed home. He liked Hermione but he did not like Malfoy. Any Malfoy. At least the little rat-faced bully’s parents were still skulking overseas.

“Where are the babies?” Molly asked with enthusiasm. She did not know quite what to say with Malfoy smirking over Hermione’s shoulder. It seemed so strange to her to be here but she did not want to be disloyal to Ron by thanking Hermione. Nor did she want to seem rude by not thanking her. George bounded into the house as though he owned the place.

“Merlin’s pants, you’ve got some grumpy looking ancestors, Malfoy.” George was aware of the awkwardness in the air and had decided to be helpful. He’d find something to do that would take everyone’s mind off wondering how to pretend it was all happy families. “And they’re quiet too. Can’t they talk?”

“George!” Molly protested, abashed. She had asked everyone, thrice, to be on their best behaviour. Not because it was Malfoy but because they were better than he was.

“Father charmed them silent.” Draco replied coolly. He had meant to be the Perfect Host but sight of Weasley, any Weasley, prodding his family portraits put a dent in his bonhomie. Hermione met the steady, good-humoured gaze of Angelina; a rock in the storm of Weasleys.

“I’ll take him into the ballroom. Come on, husband.” She took hold of George like a lioness catching prey and escorted him away from the supercilious Malfoy paintings. Arthur tried to cover the silence with a laugh. Hermione smiled reassuringly. She was very fond of Mr and Mrs Weasley. She did not want them to feel uncomfortable.

“Ginny and Harry are here already.” She made a gesture to the ballroom. It seemed quite natural and it worked to get the elder Weasleys moving in that direction in their son’s wake. Charlie went with them, guessing the conversation between Ron and his ex-wife would be easier without an audience. He would have offered to take Kasimira along with him but she had attached herself to his little brother with a Sticking Charm.

“You are looking well, Ron.” Hermione elected to start honestly. Good old moral high ground. Ron straightened up so he could look down his nose; a habit he had picked up from Percy that suited neither of them.

“We’ve had a great season.” He said as though expecting insult. “Kasimira, I would like you to meet my ex-wife Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Countess Kasimira Zakharinya, my fiancée. And Malfoy, of course.” Kasimira for her part extended a petal soft hand to Draco and gave Hermione a condescending nod.

Draco took her hand, folding it smoothly under his arm and escorted her away from Weasley in one easy movement. He knew the courtesies warranted by rank. Hermione let them go. They made a very attractive couple being both tall and blonde. Very Aryan, she though with a smirk. Voldemort would have crowed.

“She's pretty. You met at a Quidditch party, of course.” Hermione did not manage to keep all the sharpness out of her voice. She was thinking of orange knickers.

“Just because you never liked them doesn’t mean other people don’t.” Ron snapped back. He raked the greeting hall with scornful gaze. “So, how long until you’re Madam Malfoy? I bet you’re pleased with yourself.”

“Draco and I have no plans to get married.” She had answered that question so many times Hermione had it down pat with pleasant smile included. “I didn’t invite you to fight, Ron. I meant this party to be a truce.”

“Then why'd you have it here? You know Malfoy is going to be sneering all evening. Didn’t you see his face when George asked about the portraits? He looked like he was wiping shit off his shoe.”

“He wasn’t sneering.” Hermione defended automatically. “Draco is very touchy about his family. So are you.” She added and regretted it because Ron immediately took offence. She added, trying to defuse the escalating quarrel. “He doesn’t know George.”

“He’s got you well trained.” Ron spat then stalked off towards the ballroom. His mother had made him promise not to argue with Hermione or Malfoy. He was not going to be the one who started it. But he would damn well finish it if the Ferret so much as raised an eyebrow at him. Hermione took a step after him to defend herself. But she stopped, letting him go.

So he got the last word in, fine. She was an adult. She could ignore it. The witch took a deep breath. Truce, she reminded herself. A peace offering. Hermione told herself to mind her tongue around Ron. She did not have to talk to him or say anything about him. Or ask the house elves to put chilli peppers in his soup.

She noticed Suki on the stairs and hurried up to meet her. The triplets were fussing about getting dressed. They were noticeably more fractious closer to the full moon. Normally the house elves would have managed to get them dressed without her assistance but the babies were wearing heirloom christening gowns. Muggle clothing did not always respond well to charms and Hermione wanted to keep the handmade garments as pristine as possible. She would never hear the end of it from her grandmothers if they were damaged.


	5. Away in a Manger

Draco returned to an empty hallway in time to greet Kingsley Shacklebolt and his wife. The welcomes were strained as they were all aware of the Minister’s opinion of Malfoys. It was a measure of the respect he had for Hermione that he had come to the Manor. Madam Shacklebolt, who had spent most of the War with family in Botswana, breezed into the house and returned her host’s greeting politely. She had some connection to royalty, Draco recalled from his mother’s gossip. Virtuous Shacklebolt was not awed.

He did not attempt small-talk as he escorted them to the ballroom and when he saw the smiles from his guests for the newcomers, Draco experienced the unpleasant sensation of being an outsider. He was not part of the Order of the Phoenix or Dumbledore’s Army. He had been the enemy and he was now excluded.

Hermione had obliged him with invitations for several of his friends, at least the ones she did not find personally offensive but other than Greg they had not confirmed attendance. RSVP was a Muggle convention. Wizarding hospitality was supposed to be inexhaustible. Draco promised himself he would use this opportunity to give the appearance he wanted everyone to believe. That way he would not have to do this again.

Not all of them knew about the werewolf, which meant he would have a very useful chance to establish himself as an adjunct to Hermione. Draco was not going to allow anyone to make him feel inferior. He returned to the hall as his paramour descended the stairs quickly. He watched. She was probably unaware of how much she bounced. He was not going to tell her.

“Crisis averted.” She kissed him on the cheek quite naturally. “I think I’ll dress the triplets in sacks next time. Jon does not like his suit.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took a deep breath, further distracting Draco from his bitter musings. A gentleman did not snog his mistress in the front hall so he took her arm to lead her into a parlour.

There he kissed Hermione forcefully, his hands sliding over her breasts. He knew they ached and he made her squirm with arousal before releasing her. Draco took a half-step back to let them both catch their breath then gave his witch a wry smile.

“Parties are so tedious if one does not make one’s own entertainment.” He returned her earlier amiable kiss on the cheek. “The Minister is here. I doubt he’ll stay long in this den of iniquity so we might as well mingle now. Bertie will keep an eye on the door.”

“Don’t do that again.” Hermione straightened her dress, unsettled by his demanding mien. She remembered the sofa interlude warmly but his sudden possessiveness brought back bad memories from Fenrir. Her desire did not help. She was wet and intensely uncomfortable. Draco gave her an assessing look then held her hand gently.

“I feel a pariah in my own house. You are the only one who likes me. I wanted to show you I appreciate it.” Draco spoke sincerely, interweaving the apology with truth. He was not sorry. He would have bent her over a chair if she had been amenable but he did not want to alarm her. If she shied, all this would be for nothing. In old fashioned gallantry, the wizard knelt to beseech forgiveness. “Will you...”

Hermione never found out what he wanted because a shocked exclamation from the doorway made her spin around. She had a hand on her sleeve ready to draw her wand but stopped herself in time. It would have been very bad form to hex Mrs Weasley. Draco hastily stood and managed a formal smile for the elder witch with the less than superb timing.

“Oh, pardon me.” Molly blushed like a schoolgirl. Hermione groaned inwardly. She knew what they looked like. There was nothing she could say that would make this scene less ridiculous so she did not try. Instead she dealt with the inquiry that had prompted her former mother-in-law to seek out her hosts. The door to the palatial Malfoy conveniences was tucked away next to a statue of Agamemnon Malfoy, who had populated the formal gardens with suspiciously lifelike statues of people who annoyed him.

It transpired that Arthur needed the bathroom but was too uneasy to ask, leaving Molly open to being distracted by a request to help to carry the babies down to the party. Draco kept his face expressionless as the Weasley matriarch cooed over the triplets. He told himself he should not resent her attention or the wistful sighs. Her thoughts were clear on her face; she was wishing the babies were Ron’s. Draco made a point of picking up Alec.

“Malfoy tradition demands I present my firstborn son.” He said it like a challenge. He was not certain whether Mrs Weasley knew the true paternity of the babies. Regardless, Draco was not going to have some pinch-penny shabby matron elbowing in on his territory. It might be unreasonable jealousy but it would not hurt to be seen to be protective.

Hermione shot him a look as she gave Jon to Molly. He met her stare with placidity, cradling the eldest triplet like a good father. She did not say anything. She simply picked up Lind and wondered silently how Draco managed to look so arrogant and so attractive at the same time. For the sake of decorum, she did not say any of the things she wanted to do to him, sex or hex. 

There would be trouble later. Molly was too delighted with the baby to remark but Hermione knew the keenness of her eyes. For now however, they took the infants to the party and collectively feigned contentment.

The formal part of the Name-Giving went off without a hitch, as Draco had designed. He was a born host and knew how to organise. They waited a decent time for late guests then conducted the ritual introductions to present the triplets to their elders and mentors. Whether in the fullness of time any of those present would make themselves useful Draco was unwilling to venture. He was keeping a careful watch on his tongue. And his wand.

“Do you have a history of multiples in your family?” Angelina asked, holding Lind with an ease that bespoke a warning to George. The witch wanted babies. She made a happy face at Hermione’s daughter and laughed when Lind gurgled at her. Hermione would have suspected her second child of pandering to Angelina except at her age there was little a baby could do other than make noises or messes.

“No. Everyone was surprised.” Hermione smiled. She had practised that expression in the mirror as she did not want to give her feelings away. It was hard being normal, being a mother. She had not planned this. If she had decided that what she wanted was to stand in Malfoy’s ballroom with three children not his and smile about it, she would have taken herself to a psychiatrist. Which actually she was doing. Across the room, Draco and Alec held court.

“You must be relieved.” Virtuous Shacklebolt remarked conversationally and familiarly as she sipped a White Nile Martini. She was a pure-blood descended from shamans and witches back before the Roman Empire. She could not shake the impression Draco was playing a role. “Your family have had several generations of only sons, haven’t they?”

“A tradition I have abandoned.” Draco returned, uncertain whether Madam Shacklebolt was being perspicacious or snide. He did not know how much the Minister had told her about Hermione's circumstances. Nor would he ask. He would have to carry on as though her query was solely a jibe about his family’s thinning blood. “Can’t have the Weasleys having all the fun.”

The Weasleys were not having a lot of fun at the moment. Ginny had liberated Jonas from Molly and was making faces at him. Unlike Angelina, her expressions were not happy. She was mimicking the looks darting between her mother and her youngest brother. Harry was trying not to notice as he chatted with Fleur. Bill, prompted by a suspicion he could not name, prowled through the crowd to see all the babies. When he was certain, he drew his little sister aside.

“I've seen something I don’t like.” He said obliquely, looking into her eyes. Ginny met his gaze and nodded slightly. Bill let out his breath in a long almost growl. He thought for a moment then carefully took Jonas from Ginny, cradling him like he had his own children. “I know what it’s like.” He said softly to the baby. “I’ll help, don’t worry.” He handed the little one back then excused himself.

Neither Ginny nor Bill noticed Kasimira’s gaze on them. Countess Zakharinya noticed things. She noticed the glances Granger and Malfoy flicked to the other. Like flirting lovers not a stable couple with children. She noticed Longbottom’s guarded look as he stood by his silent date. He was keeping secrets. The Minister too kept an ear to the words of his wife as she jousted with their host. There was a conspiracy in the air.

“Ron, darling.” Kasimira could speak English flawlessly but she maintained a slight accent to sound exotic and to give her an excuse should she be called out on a faux pas. “Do not frown. We can dance if you do not wish to mingle.” She put a little pout in her voice. Her affianced had eyes for his ex-wife and that could be a problem. “Or we can bid farewell if you are bored.”

“She makes me so angry.” Ron said in an undertone, finishing a cocktail. It tasted of cherries and he reached for another. Kasimira did not stop him. His tongue ran when he had been drinking. She found it useful to know what he was thinking about for he was reluctant to confide when sober.

“We need not stay. We have done as your mother asked.” Her tone was mild, persuasive. Molly Weasley did not like her but Kasimira kept that in reserve for when she needed to be persistent to get what she wanted. Such as Ron setting a date for the wedding. He had put her off twice. Perhaps seeing Granger happy would prompt him to act. “Let her bat her eyelashes at the snake. We need not watch.”

“You don’t understand.” Ron's teeth grated against his cocktail glass. He turned away from the sight of Hermione turning traitor. And probably turning tricks too, he thought bitterly. Malfoy wouldn’t be doing this for free. 

Kasimira put a delicate hand on his arm and gave him a sympathetic look. She did not ask or prompt him as gossip had told her Granger was a nag. Ron squeezed her hand. Kasimira thought for a moment he could divulge but he just finished his drink. “Let’s go.”

Hermione caught Ron leaving out of the corner of her eye and ignored it. He had done what his mother asked. Best to let all of them relax rather than have an incident. Draco, talking to Greg who had finally shown up with Millicent in tow, missed the departure but a short time later under cover of serving drinks Bertie informed him of the Weasel’s absence. He had asked the house elves to keep a close eye on Ron so he could nobble him if the need arose.

Ginny and Harry did not notice as they were having a hurried conversation near the buffet table. Molly saw the flash of azure as Kasimira’s dress glittered under the decorative lanterns and had time to frown before her son disappeared from sight. She was about to go after him when Arthur caught her eye. He knew his wife still held hope for a reconciliation, not least because Kasimira was more Veela than Fleur without the excuse of heritage.

“Don’t spoil this for the children.” Arthur murmured, meaning the younger guests as he was feeling very grandfatherly this evening. Molly took him to mean the babies, whose party it was, and nodded reluctantly. She let her husband draw her out onto the dance floor so they could waltz their worries away.


	6. the Holly and the Ivy

Hermione did the foxtrot with Neville, who danced like a dream, and resisted the urge to talk shop. He had published a paper on enzyme reactions in Bubotuber pus that she found intriguing but she had limited herself to congratulations. They would discuss his research at the Alchemica Herbem Conference in Zurich after the holidays. So no science, just smiles and quick-steps.

Suki had taken the babies upstairs at midnight. Arthur and Molly had taken Martin and Louise home before taking themselves off to the Burrow, leaving the younger couples to dance. Draco twirled with Ginny with less success. They were both trying to lead.

He looked up at the sound of Hermione’s laughter. Neville knew too much for him to be at ease with his friendship with his witch. The sooner he let himself be battened down by Lestrange the better. It was not jealousy, not of the physical kind anyway. Longbottom was too soft to be ‘the other man’ but he knew things about Hermione that Draco did not and Draco resented it. He could overlook Weasley because he was an idiot but Longbottom was clever.

The music was spectral and changed tempo at a wand flick from Draco. He jazzed it up prompting Hermione as everyone swapped partners to lose Neville for George, who danced like a Dervish.

“There’s a Gryffindor thing at New Year’s Eve at Hogwarts.” George whispered breathlessly in her ear as though inviting her to tryst. Hermione had got the owl as had most of the wizarding folk in Britain. Nor was it a ‘Gryffindor thing’. Alumni from all four houses were attending.

“Angelina should get you a leash.” Hermione teased, adjusting his hands to a more socially acceptable position. George gave her an arch look and his hands remained when she had put them.

“Who says she hasn’t?” 

Later, Hermione flopped onto the bed with a groan. Her feet hurt. She kicked off her kitten heels and wondered what possessed women, herself regrettably included, to buy pointy shoes. They looked very nice on but were a bugger after a few hours. Once she had risked four inch heels to bring her closer to Ron and nearly crippled herself. Hermione put buying a pair of dress flats on her list. Maybe she would get away with boots or some wispy sandals and a warming charm.

“Are Gregory and Millicent serious?” Hermione asked idly as she massaged her feet. She rarely wore heels and moments such as now reminded her why. 

“Protective colouring. Millie is having an affair with an Italian witch. One of Blaise’s cousins. They’re keeping it deathly secret.” Draco heard himself and tried to stem the tide but he was not Canute. He had been enthralled by Hermione bending over to rub her feet and all the blood had drained from his brain. “I would be obliged if you kept that to yourself. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I only asked because I was surprised.” Hermione had no interest in making trouble for anyone. She did smirk however. “Millicent grabbed me a couple of times and on later occasions she was quite personal.” At the time she had not thought much about it but seeing Goyle and the earthy, forceful witch together had brought the incidents back to mind. “She pinched one of my nipples once. I kicked her in the shin. You were there. Part of that Umbridge nonsense.”

“You needn’t remind me.” Draco scowled, remembering the feeling of ostracism he had experienced so recently. “Sackcloth and ashes is still in fashion. I wonder if the faculty will pass around scourges at New Year’s so the Slytherins can flagellate themselves to atone for their sins.”

“You’re being melodramatic.” Hermione stretched out on the quilt still in her dress. She debated having a shower, recalled she did not have to worry about the bill as Malfoy Manor was definitely not hooked up to British Gas and rolled off the bed. “I’ll grant you this evening’s crowd were partisan but you have to admit after decades of Voldemort hanging around like a bad smell there is cause for grudges.”

“Do you hold one?” Draco asked abruptly. “You didn’t dance with Greg or Theo.”

“They didn’t offer. And Theo spent the evening trying to get into Ginny's pants.” Hermione shot back from the bathroom. “I didn’t dance with Millicent either or Harry or the Minister for that matter.” She charmed on the hot water and slid out of her dress, thankfully ridding herself of her bra. 

“Greg invited us to his sister’s wedding.” Draco was still acerbic as he joined her in the shower invitation or no. He did not touch her just lathered himself and watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Her gaze drifted down to his groin as she remembered.

“I didn’t know Gregory had a sister.” Her thoughts were not on Goyle’s sibling. She was thinking about a kitchen in Cumbria and going down on her knees. Why now she did not know. Some undercurrent of displeasure in his voice perhaps? She had never gone down on him. He had asked but had accepted her refusal without comment or query. Hermione was conscious of her pulse thudding like a taiko drum.

“Lucy is a Squib. She might've been able to manage First Year but any magic leaves her sick. She’s been educated at home.” He noticed her tension and wondered if he was approaching a lecture. As a diversion, Draco kept talking while he washed himself. Hermione was too schooled in middle class courtesy to interrupt him. “She’s marrying one of the Wilkes. He’s practically a Squib too. His parents packed him off to Salem to keep him out of the way.” 

There had been a lot of family-tree pruning amongst the pure-blood families. Voldemort had more been an excuse than a reason. The old names were willing to forgive infirmity or madness or both but an heir without magic was a shame. For magic lifted one from the unwashed masses and protected one from their contamination. But that tree of knowledge bore bitter fruit.

“Private ceremony, of course.” Draco considered the steam hanging in the air. The floating world, wasn’t that the Japanese term? Like soap bubbles, a touch and it was gone. “Gregory has insisted on standing up with her. Their parents won’t be there. They wanted Lucy to marry an uncle of Pansy’s who’s on his third wife already.”

Barren spouses had gone the way of Squibs before. Foxing the Ministry had been de rigueur in the Golden Age of When Wizards Ruled and Muggles Feared. Draco had not paid much mind to the scandals of his lineage. He had thought himself above them. It had been mortifying to realise his actions might some day be looked upon by a descendant and mocked. He had been a fool but it was not too late to rewrite accounts.

“I’m happy to go.” Hermione washed her hands with the diligence of a surgeon with OCD. “Is there a registry somewhere?” Draco bit down on a mocking laugh, aware she was flying sightless. Some big thought was pushing everything else to the corners of her mind. Registry indeed.

“The usual custom is to ask the bride’s parents what she requires for her trousseau or the groom’s parents what his household wants. Or give some dust-collecting antique. I have some china from my grandmother, who was half-sister to Greg’s grandfather so there’s a familial justification for foisting it and crockery is useful.” He charmed the soap to clean his back. “They’ll break enough of it doing the washing up by hand.”

Hermione, feeling light-headed and stubborn, crouched down and shuffled over to him, taking his penis into her hands. Draco sensed there was something more to this than pleasure and nattered on to avoid distracting her.

“Or there is a glory box of assorted linens from my great, great aunt. She was only married a few days before her husband blew himself up with a misfired curse in a duel. She married the man who had made her a widow but using the wedding gifts from the first nuptials was seen as unlucky. The linen would need airing but it’s hand embroidered and so forth. Mother showed it to me when we were hunting for a gift for some relative.”

Thinking of Narcissa as his lover put her mouth on him was not the most appropriate idea but it kept Draco from groaning. Hermione was frustratingly tentative, stopping and starting. He did not comment. He did grip the shower rail for support. It would take a more restrained man than he to shrug off her attentions. Her tongue slid around his glans teasing the flared edges. Merlin on a flying carpet, she looked good serving him.

Draco would never say so, particularly when she could emasculate him with a bite, but he liked the sight of Hermione supplicant before him. He and Pansy had whiled away many an afternoon playing Master and Pet. It was a pity Hermione would not be amenable to a leash. He would just have to settle for this. He’d force himself, Draco thought with a smothered moan.

Hermione tried not to remember and although her stomach clenched from nerves she found she could do it. One less thing the werewolf had over her though she doubted she would ever enjoy it. Draco smoothed a hand through her hair and tears pricked in her eyes. He felt a sob catch in her throat and girding his loins he pulled out.

The witch choked for breath as she struggled for composure. Why did little things hurt so much?

Draco charmed off the shower and took her to bed. She told him, lying shaking in his arms. Told him about waking up in the barn, of the treason of a friend and of the horrible violation of the lost time. Of laughing voices and taking a wand from a dying man’s hand. She still did not remember all of the ordeal and for someone who prided themselves on their mental prowess the confusion was almost as bad as the assault.

He held her, simply listening and put the pieces together in his mind. When her words failed, Draco brushed his lips across her forehead as though wanting to kiss the pain away. Hermione subsided into sleep exhausted by release. He plotted.

Being a Malfoy, he had absolutely no remorse in using this information to get what he wanted. He would have to move soon before she was fully collected. Hermione was mentally tough. She would recover quickly. Not completely, one never did, but the wounds were already half-healed. And when she was mended fully she would not need him. And she would leave. Draco was not going to allow that.


	7. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Saturday morning found Hermione in her pyjamas wrapping Christmas presents. She could have done it easily with magic but she was mentally weary and wanted repetitive activity to give herself a chance to recoup. Talking about her ordeal had drained her more than she liked though she did feel a little better for it. Besides, adding her personal touch to the gifts made her smile. It was frippery and ephemeral but little joys made life worthwhile.

So did big mugs of hot chocolate with candy canes to stir them. The minty sweet drink was a favourite from her childhood she had inflicted on Draco. He sat at the kitchen table sipping and eyeing the sheaves of paper. He had condescended to write the labels, unsurprised by the neat list she had handed him or the discovery she had bought these supplies in the previous January during the sales.

“We’ll be seeing everyone at my parent’s house so we’ll take the gifts with us.” Hermione was conscious of every personal plural in that sentence. There did not seem another way to say it without bogging down with ‘you and I’. Besides, they were going together. She continued with her point before miring herself in linguistic subtext. “Otherwise I'd never have got the parcels posted in time.”

“Owls are reasonably discrete in the early morning.” Draco dipped his quill and scribed his way through the Penriths trying to guess the familial relationships. It was old habit as a pure-blood; the How Much a Cousin Game.

“Not in Birmingham.” She'd had this conversation with Ron. Wizards liked doing it the easy way but Hermione was entirely sure there would be quite a lot of interest in an owl trying to deliver a package to a Tyneside apartment. Her Uncle Ned was unlikely to react as badly as Vernon Dursley but he’d certainly not be thrilled.

As she applied labels, Draco noted Hermione had colour-coded the presents. He had been fairly close with his guesses of who related to who how though he had been out with Edward and Joshua and Anne. He would get the story of that at the Grangers' party he wagered. Perhaps she could draw him a chart.

“You are a merchant banker, possibly.” Hermione curled bright red ribbon then pulled the coils idly through her fingers as she considered a likely lie. She could not tell her family Draco was a wizard. That was fine. She could absolutely not tell them he was unemployed. “No, an estate manager. That’s true enough and you have the air of the aristocracy.” She slid a gift aside to contemplate the next.

Nana Penrith always asked for the same thing; a posh hat from town. The town in this case was Milan and an ostentation of peacocks had donated their plumage for the chapeau. Hermione shrouded the hatbox with silver paper, obscuring the milliner’s name. Her grandmother would love the hat but she did not know Prada from Pravda far less an Italian bespoke designer.

“Is that a polite way of saying you think I’m pompous?” Draco inquired as he wondered why anyone would bother naming their son Jack. A small terrier perhaps or a child’s first pony, now they could be a Jack but an eldest son? The name did not even look presentable in his elegant script. Might as well dub the unfortunate Unimaginative Smith and be done with it.

“You have to have a job. In my family not working is tantamount to sin.” Hermione’s parents had introduced Ron as a footballer, confident none of the family followed sport. There had been an awkward moment when her uncle Philip had asked what Ron wanted to do after his career was over. ‘Market brooms’ had been half way to Ron’s lips but he’d strangled it to Marketing. She did not want a repeat of that with her whole family there.

“I’ll be landed gentry. Plenty of them loafing about. No need to...” He stopped as Bertie almost skidded into the room and announced Madam Malfoy. Draco stood to greet his mother, worried. He had not expected her for another few days and Narcissa always sent an owl. She walked into the room quickly, ladies did not run, and paused before taking the chair Draco held out for her.

“Miss Granger.” Narcissa said, coolly polite despite a flushed face. She was fashionably dressed but there was a hint of haste in her attire as though she had been merely going through the motions.

“Mrs Malfoy.” Hermione replied promptly, giving the other witch the conventional greeting for which she was waiting. Social niceties observed meant the willowy blonde could subside onto the chair and explain why she was there without risk of snubbing her son’s guest.

“Your father is missing. It is terribly serious. I left last night to go to the theatre and when I returned to the hotel he was gone. I have looked everywhere.” Narcissa turned subtly to her son, showing her back to Hermione. She had made a good effort to seem accepting of her lessers but her mannerisms gave her away. The cut-glass crisp voice did not help. “I was on the point of owling you when I received this.”

Narcissa pulled out a scroll from her handbag and gave it to Draco. He read the letter slowly, not because it was complex but to ensure he did not miss little details. The author had used a quill to print the demand of money with menaces. A lot of money. He noted the detailed ‘or else’. It was quite as awful as expected. The missive had been sealed with his father’s personal signet to add credence to the extortion. Draco looked at his mother, who was very consciously maintaining a stiff upper lip.

“We might be able to raise the Galleons.” Though unless his father had secret accounts he had not revealed to either his wife or his heir it would be a squeeze. As well as taking time they had not been given. The ransom would beggar their family.

“Your father would hate that.” Narcissa shook her head hopelessly, still shocked. “We must go to the Aurors.” She spoke as though having teeth pulled. “There is no other recourse but to appeal to the Ministry.” Her supercilious demeanour wavered. She was close to tears, her hands trembling. “For the scant efforts they will make on our behalf.”

Hermione made tea. It seemed the thing to do. She felt momentarily trapped in a period drama. England, 1942 or something akin to that. Air raid sirens and ground-in misery. It was unreal. But the witch’s reticence and the wizard’s sangfroid came from another era. Her own ingrained reaction to the news had been callous. She could still feel sympathy but only for Narcissa and Draco. Lucius Malfoy could burn in hell. On a spit.

“I’ll speak to Harry.” She said to the kitchen wall as the kettle whistled. The house elves had made themselves scarce at the lady of the house’s obvious distress. They were accustomed to bearing the brunt of any Malfoy unhappiness. Hermione turned around, her face all business. “We know the politics. I’ll see the Ministry puts someone competent on the investigation.”

She made a cup for Draco and his mother, took the scroll then went upstairs. Getting changed into her work robes solidified her thoughts. Hermione was not doing this out of altruism. She felt obliged to Draco for his help. He had done a lot for her. It was only fair she repay him.

And something about this ran darker. She was not one for following feelings but her first impression had been a sense of something more than mere revenge. The elder Malfoy had enough enemies to fill Wembley Stadium. How many of them would bother returning him intact, ransom or no? 

Hermione flooed to the Ministry, making her way to the Aurors deep in thought. How many of Malfoy’s enemies would bother about the Galleons? Money was money but the sort of bitter feuds wizards cultivated transcended practical considerations. A traditionalist would crawl over broken glass to get revenge but would never consider taking their victim’s wallet. A traditionalist would want to keep their vengeance pure. This was modern reciprocity.

Harry was swearing at a scroll written in Sanskrit, which was the preferred language of the wizarding folk of South Asia. He looked up as Hermione approached and grabbed a chair from an unoccupied cubicle for her to sit down. She waited as he finished the translation resisting the urge to read over his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, frowning at the elegant script.

“I’m fine. This is business or will be shortly.” Hermione leant back in the chair. She got abdominal cramps if she was not careful of her posture; a legacy from healing magic. All the damage was mended but her body remembered. It would fade in time. That would not be soon enough for her comfort.

And once the residual auras had dissipated completely, she would finally be able to get a straight answer on what so much magic had done to her. Hermione put that worry very firmly aside.

“Tell me all. I’m done here.” He put the report from Mumbai aside. More politics. The Indian wizards had not forgiven the British for the Raj. Harry listened as Hermione told him then shook his head. “Bloody unbelievable.” He was not doubting the ransom just the irony of the Ministry searching for Malfoy to protect him. “Sodding hilarious.”

“I don’t like it. It’s too cliché.” Hermione massaged the inside of her wrist where the end of her wand rubbed. “Too Muggle, for want of a better phrase.” She handed him the ransom note. “See if it reads the same way to you. Dark magic threats. Classic Death Eater stuff but the worst of that was propaganda.”

Harry studied the scroll as he and Hermione shared the same train of thought. Voldemort and his followers had done horrible, unnatural things and that was not the worst of the Dark Arts. However, the Unforgivables were relatively easy to learn. Most wizards could master them, which was what made them so devastating. You did not need skill so much as focus and anyone could hate enough to hurt.

“The quill work is practised.” Harry rubbed a thumb pensively over a corner of the parchment. He would bet it was goatskin not calfskin. Recently some Muggle-borns had begun campaigning against the use of hides in magical workings. Although vellum could last for hundreds of years it was neither environmentally friendly nor compatible with a vegan lifestyle. There was quite a lot of debate over paper versus parchment. 

“I thought so too.” Hermione crossed her arms, unconsciously lowering her voice. “I’d say whoever sent it is one of me.” She used their familiar shorthand; meaning a Muggle-born. One of Harry's was a Half-Blood. “Or succeeding very well in seeming like one.” A frown twisted her mouth. “Whoever it is has Malfoy’s signet ring but that doesn’t confirm anything. From what I’ve heard from Draco his dad is getting pretty vague. It’s possible he has lost himself and/or his ring.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.” The Boy Who Bore Grudges handed the note back. “All just desserts aside, this is a sticky problem. Get Mrs Malfoy to front up to the Department. I’ll put the word out she’s not to be brushed off.” Harry grimaced at the bad taste in his mouth. “Once there’s an official report from relatives, I’ll go to Shacklebolt. He’ll want to know sharpish.”

Neither needed to say there were undercurrents in Ministry politics that made having a prominent ex-Death Eater go missing very inconvenient. It would not take much to blow this out into an Incident and the last thing they wanted was for Lucius Malfoy to become a poster boy for pure-blood rights.

“This could be a stunt.” She aired the possibility she had not given voice to in Draco’s presence. “I’d say Narcissa believes Malfoy has been kidnapped but she is a good actress. She wouldn’t have survived marriage to a Death Eater if she weren’t.” Hermione stood, returning the scroll to her handbag. “Not quite as conventional as staging your own death but an unsolved Missing Persons case is good enough.”

“You think Ferretboy is involved?” His use of the epithet got Harry a cold look from his friend. He jerked his head to the mound of work on his desk. His temper was stretched and with a new baby sleep was at a premium. Hermione conceded with twitch of her head. They read each other’s body language well.

“He’s a good actor too. And I know he’s a good liar.” She considered the possibility she was being played for a fool. “I don’t think he’s in on it, assuming there is anything to be in on.”

“You're sleeping with him.” Harry remarked blandly.

“I don’t need you to tell me my judgement is compromised.” Hermione retorted but with less verve than she would if she had not agreed herself. “I know.” She thought about it some more, not second-guessing herself but being careful in her assessment. “I’m still sure. Narcissa might be lying but I don’t think Draco is.”


	8. Children, Go Where I Send Thee

Narcissa took the news of her proxy appointment with all the hauteur of her caste. Hermione had not expected a shower of gratitude but she was a little miffed at the terse thanks she did receive. It rankled that her efforts were seen as to be expected. She would let it slide this time however quid pro quo for the public rehabilitation would be some actual rehab.

Mother and son went to the Ministry, leaving Hermione to finish her Christmas presents. Which she did then got changed and found her passport. Something had to be done. Equally clearly, she should be on hand for damage control in case Draco thought that ‘something’ was letting slip the dogs of war.

Hermione called some people she knew courtesy of work. It was all very unofficial. She did not want to step on Harry’s toes or give her friend the impression she did not trust him to do his job. She did. Research was research however. Primed with a little forewarning and an up-to-date spell for translation into Swedish, the witch sat down to wait.

The Malfoys returned after noon just as she was finishing giving the triplets lunch. She stuck her head out the door to watch Draco almost carry his mother to her suite. Hermione tidied up, giving him time to call house elves and put an exhausted Narcissa to bed. She intercepted him at his bedroom door.

“Who's your prime suspect?” She asked bluntly, deciding backing him into a corner from the beginning was the best strategy. Draco was not a man who persuaded easily whatever the honey used. Pansy could vouch for what.

“I don’t know yet. Once mother has recovered I’ll return with her to Stockholm and look around.” Draco spoke carefully. He showed little exterior sign of emotion but his jaw was clenched hard. He was very angry indeed. “Might as well get started searching as I doubt the Aurors will be tripping over themselves to find Father.”

“Harry said he’d see to it they’d investigate properly.” Hermione reminded him before he dug himself into a vendetta.

“I wouldn’t take Potter’s word for it if he said my arse was on fire.” He strode past her into his room to march to his closet and angrily pull out winter clothes. “I am going to make inquiries, nothing more.”

Hermione did not defend Harry’s promise even though it felt like disloyalty as it would only aggravate Draco further. His words were terse and she did not believe him. They could be in Sweden in ten minutes just the two of them. If Draco kept with his plan to go with Narcissa, it would be hours. He would not wake his mother before she was ready even though the wait would grate on his nerves. All sneers aside, pure-bloods were highly strung. He’d be pacing and unbearable before dinner.

“We’ll go.” Hermione spoke firmly. “Your mother needs to rest. She said herself she looked everywhere. I’ll bet she’s been up all night.” The witch regarded him seriously. “It'll look bad for you if you charge around alone.” Catching his expression, she continued quickly to forestall an outburst. “I know you don’t care. I know you think no one else gives a damn but you won’t find your father by setting Europe ablaze.”

“Fire will not be involved.” Draco shrugged on a coat as though donning armour. Hermione had expected this and had dressed warmly. She had also packed an overnight bag and shrunk it, and had expressed enough milk for the dinner feeding in case she was late. Apparating once was not much of a strain but if they were going to be hopping around the continent it would be exhausting.

“Accio trench.” She flicked her wand out, cast then slid it back in fluid motion. Her blue woollen trench coat fluttered into the room. The witch put it on and directed a mulish stare at the wizard. Hermione had been there and done that and she knew better than he how bad it could be. But she said nothing, just looked at him expectantly.

“Very well.” Draco conceded, rationalising that he did not want to argue with her because it might harm his campaign to win her. The private assessment that he was unlikely to best her in this nor really wanted to got shoved aside as immaterial. “Give me a moment to write Mother a note.”

Hermione kept her mouth shut though the temptation to quip ‘don’t forget to ask for permission to stay out late’ was almost unbearable. Draco dashed off a quick explanation then filled his pockets with galleons from a wall safe, and slipped a second wand into his coat. It might be necessary to be coercive in his persuasion. Hermione would never agree but what she did not know he would not tell her.

Regardless of their haste, they diverted to Diagon Alley to buy a wizarding Atlas. The one in the Malfoy library pre-dated Grindelwald, much like their politics. Part road guide, part GPS the unassuming book would keep them from Apparating off target. Hermione could name all the capitals of the European Union but jumping blindly from Amsterdam to Zagreb was a masochist’s itinerary.

Stockholm was bright, the sun glistening off snow and shop windows. Draco had Apparated them into an alley a facing a courtyard lined with upmarket stores. The cold air was a shock and for a moment Hermione could not breathe. She pulled her scarf over her face to take refuge in Gryffindor coloured wool.

“We’ll start at the hotel.” Draco marched away crunching through snow like a Viking set on plunder. Hermione followed, walking carefully and debating whether informing the local police would be a good idea. She was certain Narcissa had not and would not.

Lucius would not stand out in Scandinavia, though idle recollection told her the origin of the blonde mutation was most likely Lithuania. How that nugget of information might assist, Hermione could not tell. Her mind was racing like a greyhound. She focussed on strategy. She had never given much thought to the logistics of abducting someone. Killing, yes, but not kidnapping.

Abductions in wizarding society were not common unless they were forced betrothals or elopements. And that was definitely not the case here. Hermione could not believe anyone would want to bed Lucius Malfoy. The man was so self-obsessed he and his wife should swap names. 

There were difficulties in removing an unwilling wizard, in keeping them, in preventing the victim from being located and freed, from being tracked and a myriad of other obstacles. No, wizards went in for blackmail, staged accidents and threats. It took a phenomenal amount of energy to incarcerate a magical person by purely magical means. Hermione had seen the yearly budgets for Azkaban even when the Dementors were ‘employed’ there. Ward maintenance alone would have bankrupted the City of London. 

One of the reasons why the financial stratification of wealth remained more or less constant amongst wizards was the money did not actually move around that much. Once the Ministry got hold of a Galleon, it kept it. Azkaban and projects like it were fiscal black holes. Hermione knew that from campaigning for funding. That was why she was so keen on her department paying for itself. The wizarding world needed transfusions of new money to keep it alive.

Hotel Nisse in the old city was very consciously Old World, a seventeenth century building renovated for the twenty-first but trying to hide it. Draco was already interrogating the clerk at the front desk. Hermione let him exert his dominance or whatever his tactics were for getting answers. She paced through the narrow lobby trying to notice things.

As a child she had been very good at the ‘spot what’s missing’ game. Here, Hermione was more interested in detecting traces of magic. She did not use her wand as she did not want to foul the location for the Ministry but she could get a feel for the place. What the witch mostly noticed was the discrete security cameras did not move and someone had been smoking cigars. Nancy Drew, she was not.

“I have the key.” Draco informed her tersely as he stalked past to the elevator. Hermione followed a pace behind like a dutiful housewife while thinking of ways to get a look at the surveillance footage. That would probably be going too far in the eyes of the Aurors so she did not mention it but she did draw Draco’s attention to the fire exit when they reached the fourth floor.

“I bet that leads to a nice quiet side street.” Hermione observed. “I am not saying it would be easy but that would be the way I would get your father out of this hotel. I imagine after all those years at Voldemort’s heel he is quite resistant to Imperious.” Getting Lucius to walk out of the hotel under his own steam would be the easiest way and for a moment she considered if Draco’s father had gone willingly.

“If you have something to say, just say it.” Draco snapped testily. “If you are thinking Father would set this up himself then don’t. He was a mental wreck when he and Mother left England. There’s no question of him faking. Someone has taken him.”

“Don’t get shirty with me.” She warned. “It is a possibility. Either for magic, coercion, drugs or just plain cussedness. I’m here to help not tell you what you want to hear.”

Draco did not answer. He opened the door to his parent’s hotel room and stopped. It was a pigsty. Clothes and belongings were strewn everywhere. Bedding, pillows and the contents of the bar fridge had been scattered as well. And not by Narcissa. She might have grown up with her every need attended by house elves but she was almost obsessed by order. She had very little control otherwise over her own life.

“Don’t touch anything.” Hermione caught Draco’s arm as he reached for his wand to clean up the mess so they could search. “We are not going to disturb this. Whoever did this either has what they wanted or your mother has it. Either way, we will just muddy the waters for the Aurors.”

“I’ll keep the room on for another week, in case Father comes back.” Draco let himself be ushered away from the mess, his temper unreasonably building at the disarray of his parent’s things. His mother’s underwear was scattered over the floor. No one had a right to do that. Narcissa would be mortified.

“Good idea. Let’s check the parking nearby.” Hermione led the way back to the elevator, noticing how warm it was in the hallway. She loosened her coat trying not to feel like a mummy in all her layers. “Once we’re discreetly away from the site we can try a trace on Lucius.”

“It won’t work.” Draco bit back another snap and spoke as mildly as he could as they descended in the little yo-yo box. “Father had himself masked after the Dark Lord fell. He wanted to prevent anyone hunting him down. He must have overlooked some aspect of the ritual as someone found him.”

They left the hotel. Hermione had a moment to catch a flash of silver before she was shoved roughly forward. Her feet slipped on the icy front steps and she barrelled down onto the pavement. Landing with a crunch, she saved her breath for fighting not swearing and rolled.

A man in a turquoise anorak got a boot in the crotch as he approached. Hermione hoped he was not a Good Samaritan coming to assist. Even the nicest guy would bear a grudge for getting his olives pressed. She scrambled up fast, favouring her right knee, only to have Draco crash into her as he staggered back from a brunet in another blue-green jacket. 

She caught him and used him as cover to pull her wand. Not for a Hex, not in broad daylight in the Stortorget, but there were other options. Since her kidnapping, Hermione had researched an array of Charms she could discretely use on herself. She thought of this one as her Valkyrie spell. 

Magic flooded her limbs with power and she launched herself at the man who had struck Draco. Her elbow met his sternum in a blow that probably would have popped her shoulder out of joint had she tried it without the Charm. His breath whooshed past her face as he went down.

Hermione crash tackled the third guy opportunistically rifling through Draco’s pockets. She had developed the Valkyrie Charm to give her a defensive and adrenalin boost in melee combat when duelling was not an option. Her research into a spell to give her martial arts skill beyond the rough techniques she had picked up in the field was still in progress unfortunately.

So she used blunt force, bowling both her target and herself into a snow bank. He armed her off, splitting her lip. Hermione got a heel jab into his knee that made him swear in German. Then a woman yelled in Swedish for a police officer. The fight broke up quickly after that. The three men ran, two of them gingerly, as Hermione lurched over to Draco lying prone on the footpath.

Her spell-wrought verve drained from her as shock flooded in; blood soaked the front of his sweater. Draco had not been punched. He had been stabbed. Hermione grabbed her beanie and used it to apply pressure to the wound as a tall man in navy blue radioed for an ambulance.

“I’m a doctor.” She lied quickly. “I’ll stay with him. Get them!” 

The cop gave her a nod before running down the street in pursuit. Hermione cast a Healing Charm while hiding her wand low near the ground. Draco coughed, red foam splattering over his face, but he roused and swore a rather different oath than the German had used.

“Let’s get out of here.” He levered himself into a sitting position wincing at the bruises she had not yet mended.

“Too late.” Hermione spotted the policeman returning as well as the onlookers’ avid interest. A matronly woman in a florist’s pinny came out into the square with a blanket to swathe Draco with no more comment than ‘Varsågod’.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a visit to a casualty ward where Draco was given an efficient few stitches to the small but deep gash just under his ribs and then in making a statement to the police. By the time they finally excused themselves it was dark. Hermione took them home as Draco was in a temper foul enough to Apparate them to the banks of the Tiber not the Thames.

He stormed off in a huff, not quite slamming his door but shutting it firmly enough to brook no visitors or comment. Hermione was at a loose end. She felt she should be doing something constructive. Firstly she went to the nursery for the evening feed. And to think.

The three men had no used magic. Hermione could not decide whether that was significant. Only the terminally reckless threw spells about in front of Muggles. She did not think she and Draco had looked especially affluent or vulnerable to tempt as targets of a random mugging. Not that she had been a victim of street crime often enough to judge trends.

Alec was fractious and she hoped he was not teething. Surely it was too soon? There was not much research on immature lycanthropes. Hermione resolved to take detailed notes on every developmental stage so the next woman who found herself in this situation, Heaven help her, would have some references to judge what was normal.

She missed normal. Everything had settled down nicely after the War until bloody Greyback. Hermione held Alec against her shoulder to burp him and was rewarded with an enthusiastic amount of spit-up. Lovely.

A little elf magic took care of the mess. Suki was a godsend. Hermione thanked her and swapped Alec for Lind.

Who did she know in Germany? Or Austria or Switzerland? Or Liechtenstein or Luxembourg, for that matter? She needed more to go on than a chance heard swear word. Draco might know someone. He socialised a lot with the Durmstrang crowd but she was not going to ask him anything until he came out of his sulk. It was tempting to connect the abduction with the assault. Hermione disliked coincidences.

She finished the feeding, tucked her children into their cots and had a maternal moment looking down at their pink little faces. Hermione blinked away tears, cross with herself for crying for no particular reason. Hormones had a lot to answer for, the witch opined. She collected her trench coat before heading to the least ominous workroom below stairs. There was something else she could do.


	9. Deck the Halls

Hermione had thought it grasping at straws but she had swabbed all the blood splatter on her person. If she’d had more presence of mind, she chided herself, she would have grabbed the knife used to stab Draco so they could have had a physical link to trace. Assuming the Anorak Men had not used a freshly bought and therefore anonymous weapon. But assume made an ass out of you and me. In their places, she would have shed knife and anoraks at the first opportunity.

All qualms aside, they needed every lead they could scrounge so while Draco was being terse to the nurses, she had purloined a handful of cotton buds. Feeling like she was on CSI, Hermione had got a sample of every little blood speck she could find on her. Her split lip had bled profusely making most of the mess on her face and coat. Her hands were too contaminated from her first aid on Draco to yield a useful unknown sample either.

Persistently, she tested all the swabs with a modified Heredity Charm, more often used to settle disputed inheritances than in amateur forensic science. A sample from a speck on her ear did not match her or a Malfoy. While there was not enough for a full ritual trace to get the exact location she could track with it. 

Hermione went to Draco’s room. The door was locked. She knocked without response. Another louder knock also got nothing. She left a note. The witch was not sure this would work so she simply went by herself rather than making more of a ruckus. She was not going to slip away without telling someone however. That road led to the land of the Gothic Heroine wafting about desolate moors at midnight in a white lace nightgown. Decidedly in sensible clothing, the witch Apparated to Stockholm.

The old city sparkled. Christmas decorations filled the narrow streets with carnival light. Hermione made her way back to the Hotel Nisse. Her wand pulsed as the tracking spell found something. She headed along the street down which their assailants had fled. The trace was hours old; almost half a day. She had to run an amplification Charm to get any response at all from the blood focus. It was not hopeless but it was feeble.

The three Anoraks had been on foot and not moving at full pace down a quiet side road. Hermione tramped slowly trying to look inconspicuous before turning into a courtyard. There was an old Rococo fountain, a patisserie firmly shut at this hour and the sort of fly-by-night club that advertised by word of mouth and closed because of health regulations. She went in.

It was crowded, stuffy, deafening and almost entirely full of women. Of course, she lost the trace as soon as she crossed the threshold. There were simply too many people to get a clear read on anything. There had been a faint response right up until that point however suggesting her targets had gone inside. Hermione checked her coat, smiled at the girl with the ring in her nose then tried to have a look around.

The management had not done much to the building. They probably couldn't, heritage regulations being what they were, Hermione thought as she contemplated architraves. The lights were dim or strobing, the music industrial and she had to weave drunkenly through the throng. Not her sort of club but she was not such a stick in the mud that she saw anything that really shocked her.

She guessed the building had been a domestic residence originally. Where the kitchen had been there was now a bar with doors leading out into a postage stamp sized garden. There were people outside drinking. Probably antifreeze, Hermione smirked to herself. What caught her eye was a back gate. It likely led to a laneway behind the house in the days of the nightsoil cart.

The Anoraks could have gone out that way. They had shaken the police officer fairly quickly. She needed to find someone to ask what time the club opened. Distracted by her investigation, Hermione was not watching where she was going and collided with a woman turning around from the bar. Her drinks spilled over the both of them; vivid blue Curacao going everywhere. Both women swore in British English.

“Millicent?” Hermione looked up from her now orange scented blouse into the jolie-laide face of her former schoolmate. She saw a brief expression of horror before the Liverpool Kiss connected and she went stumbling back dazed. Millicent shoved past her. Hermione grabbed at her sleeve to stop her but missed. She gave chase while trying to fish a handkerchief out of her pocket to staunch her bloody nose.

Hermione caught sight of the witch as she pulled a titian haired woman off the dance floor and dragged her towards the front door. They were talking but the music was too loud for her to hear anything. She guessed part of the conversation was a protest as Millicent rushed her companion out of the club without pausing to get their coats.

Muttering a warming charm, Hermione went after them. She had the advantage in her boots; running in stiletto heels on icy cobblestones was not easy. The pair slid fast into a shopping arcade. A good place for an ambush.

Her wand was ready when Millicent shot out a Jelly-Legs Charm and the redhead tried a Tarantella Charm, which argued they had cast magic together before as that combination was particularly debilitating. Those thoughts and concern over a possible Muggle audience ran quickly through Hermione’s head as she countered both with a rebounding Charm much used by the Order of the Phoenix.

It did not have much finesse but it had a lot of kick. The spells bounced back on their casters. Millicent tried to pull herself up on rubber legs while her companion capered like a can-can dancer on speed. Hermione checked for any spectators and finding the arcade fortunately empty, levelled her wand at her fellow alumna.

“Right, Bulstrode, care to explain yourself?” She demanded rather nasally. Her nose probably was not broken but it damn well hurt.

“Vaffanculo!” Said the redhead eloquently.

“What the bloody Hell is wrong with you?” Hermione demanded. She was not sure what language the fiery woman had used but she could guess what the word meant. “We got along fine at my children’s Name Day.”

“I panicked, Granger.” Millicent answered, making it sound like it was Hermione’s fault and leaning heavily against a wall as her knees trembled as though she had shrews in her trews. “I thought the Ministry sent you. You work there.”

“In a Research Department.” She corrected acidly, dismissing the Hexes and casting a Healing Charm to mend her nose. “May I ask why you thought the Ministry would send someone to inquire about your nightlife?” Hermione inquired with deliberate courtesy. The paired witches glanced at each other, speaking rapidly in a language that was probably Italian, she guessed now she heard more of it. This could be the cousin Draco had mentioned.

“My father, he is very angry.” The thus-far-unintroduced witch remarked petulantly. “I have tried many times to say to him this is what I want and he does not lose the family name if I do not marry. I have a brother, you see.” She waved a hand, her accent becoming more pronounced as her ire grew. “But he will not hear me. He is not a man who is often crossed.”

“Which explains why you’re in a Muggle bar in Sweden but not the rest of it.” Hermione Charmed the blood and Curacao off her blouse. She was going to have to give this outfit a bit of a rest from magic or it would start transmogrifying spontaneously due to spell residue. Either that or find diversions less taxing on her wardrobe.

“He’s using old paterfamilias legislation from the Italian Ministry to have Rigarda watched. He had a Wizengamot crony of his declare her a legal minor for the purposes of marriage or some rot.” Millicent shrugged. She had never been one for making friends with books. “Means he can veto who she sees privately, which disallows me good and proper.”

“I see.” Hermione did see. Many of the regional administrations had not reformed their legal systems in millennia. It had become something of a trivia game in her Department, as they had tripped over the obscure laws more than once in trying to import research materials. She knew of a statute on the Serbian books that required fraternal twins born on Saturdays to wear their clothing inside out. It was a hangover from a vampire epidemic apparently.

“Why are you here?” Millicent demanded with that arrogant tone so prevalent amongst pure-bloods. Every one was convinced they had the right to interrogate the hoi polloi.

“Christmas shopping.” She replied blandly. Hermione was not entirely certain why she wanted to keep her mission secret. Old habit perhaps but she was extremely reluctant to explain what had brought her to Stockholm. “How about a compromise? We all go quietly on our way and keep mum?”

That got ready agreement from the persecuted pair, who took themselves off down the arcade at speed. Hermione went back to the club, collected her coat and headed out the back to see if she could pick up the trace once more.

She had no luck at all with the blood focus, not a blip. Pacing back and forth down the narrow laneway Hermione tried to deduce a likely route. Left led into a mesh of side streets, right led to a commercial avenue thronging with traffic even at that hour and temperature. The Anoraks could have jumped a fence too. Accept it, she thought to herself, you are no private detective.

But damn it all, she did not want to go home empty-handed. There had to be something. Talking to the staff of the nightclub was a possibility. Hermione tried that and got very little. The bar staff started work at seven. She did get confirmation the club had been open during the day meaning the Anoraks could have ducked through so the effort was not entirely wasted but the witch was frustrated when she had to concede defeat. She returned to England in a dour mood.

Malfoy, D. and Malfoy, N. were abed when she returned. Hermione slept in her own room for convenience rather than any spat with her host. It was too late for anything but sleep, which she did only lightly and brokenly. The morning found her scratchy, jumping at small noises. She nursed and put herself back to bed to court sleep without flashing red dreams. It would be a good idea to book another counselling session, the witch decided.

Neither her host nor his mother was much in evidence on the Sabbath. Hermione sent some emails and made some phone calls then got paperwork done sitting up in bed in her pyjamas. It was a day for soup and quietude.

She headed off to work early Monday morning with an idea gelling in her mind. Convening the Surveillance Research Team, Hermione put the idea to them. It was mulled over like festive punch before everyone scattered to chase up facts. Not a quickly done thing innovation. However Hermione was satisfied with the start. She kept her nose to the grindstone until the end of the week, seeing more of her children than Draco, who tersely informed her of Yule preparations but little else. They did not mention his father. 

Narcissa acted the Lady of the Manor and was often at the Ministry. Life settled into a disjointed but regular routine until the Gentlewomans’ Circle afternoon tea the Saturday before solstice. Hermione had not forgotten the favour asked of her. She had hoped Madam Malfoy would defer her social engagements but not even a missing husband would make Narcissa break an appointment. Thus to the Cotswolds they went.


	10. Once in Royal David's City

The Greengrass ancestral abode near Wotton-under-Edge was a nice Stuart manor house someone with no taste had tried to tart up as Tudor. Hermione rolled her eyes at the timber beams and whitewash. She guessed an ambitious ancestor had revised the family’s occupation of the house to an earlier date to make them seem more pure-blood than they were. The status games of the Sacred Twenty-Eight drove people to extraordinary lengths of daftness.

“The elder Madam Greengrass will not be in attendance.” Narcissa remarked as they made their entrance up the gravel drive, having as was common Apparated just in front of the gates. The walk to the house allowed them to marvel at the architectural eccentricities and make a good procession. “She disapproves of her daughter-in-law’s attempts to moderate the family politics.”

“Lovely.” Hermione recalled Daphne Greengrass, presumably the granddaughter of the conservative elder Greengrass, as one of Pansy’s cronies and anticipated the tea party to be dire. Her sarcasm earned her a cool look, which she met without blinking. She was going to smile and be seen to be affable, and do it with good grace, but liking the pandering was beyond her.

“Quite.” Narcissa conceded and took them to the front door without further comment. They were greeted by a scion of the family rather than a house elf, a concession to modernity that did not please Madam Malfoy. Proper witches did not wait upon people. 

They surrendered their cloaks and made small talk with Astoria as she showed them into a drawing room crowded with matrons. There was a pause. Hermione rankled. The witches’ resumed their scattered conversations, collectively opting to pretend nothing was wrong. 

But the supercilious raised eyebrows stung. The fact the derision was directed at Narcissa did not make it any easier to take. Hypocritical bitches, the lot of them, Ms Granger thought. Madam Malfoy frostily weathered the looks, taking a seat with the hauteur of a Grand Duchess.

Hermione joined her on the settee. Socialising happened. It was a slow, politely excoriating game of musical chairs as people circulated to chat and eavesdrop on other conversations. She was soon listening to a Fenland witch talking ostentatiously about Laura Ashley and getting it slightly wrong despite her spirited attempt to sound like a Muggle-born. Perhaps she was going for half-blood and worldly. 

Whatever the impression the gentlewoman was trying to make she was not succeeding. Hermione looked around wondering if there was a seat vacant behind a potted palm where she could hide when a lissom blonde replaced the close friend of Mrs Ashley.

“So funny she says Laura Ashley served her personally in her shop.” Kasimira laughed like the bluebird embroidered on her robes. Hermione did not join in. She had been laughed at too often to casually mock someone else.

“I didn’t realise you were a Gentlewoman.” She ventured, noticing the very chunky engagement ring on Her Grace’s hand. Ron had not given her his grandmother’s ring as was traditional amongst the Weasleys. It was fortunate none of the boys had been engaged at the same time as the family did not have other jewellery so fine. Granddame Cedrella’s ring had done the rounds replaced by the hand-fasting ring at marriage. Only Muggles wore two rings together.

When Ron had given it to her, Hermione had been proud to be included in the tradition. She did not know whether to be surprised or dismayed about the ring. It was none of her business if Ron wanted to throw his money around. For a moment she sympathised with her successor before the thought occurred possibly Kasimira had picked the new ring herself. She had coaxed Ron into spending on other fripperies.

“Oh, I am not. How droll you are.” The titled witch smiled as though she had uttered a bon mot. “But I expect your patroness will soon have you on the rolls.” Her smile foiled her Botticelli angel face. She was cunning, Hermione realised. With the expensive tastes and kept manners it was tempting to write her off as a dumb blonde but that would be an error.

“Narcissa and I have different ideas on how to spend our time.” Hermione temporised then added. “We’re going to the Louvre later then to the Uffizi. It’ll be a nice break from the English weather.” Non-magical cultural pursuits would hopefully be a good show of Narcissa’s Muggle cred.

“And your fiancée, he is not going with you?” Kasimira asked, voice idle, wits not.

“He’s minding the babies.” Hermione could not shake the feeling she was fishing for something. Narcissa returned, and standing beside the younger blonde witch, they could have been mother and daughter.

“My son is modern. He wants to change nappies as some sort of badge of honour.” Madam Malfoy spoke dismissively, seemingly uninterested in an acquaintance’s curiosity. She took Hermione’s empty cup, swirled it once widdershins and looked at the dregs before setting it down. “Come along, my dear. The pastries are better at the café Richelieu.”

Madam Malfoy swanned out with Hermione, smirking at the implication of being the ugly duckling, following in her wake. She noted out of the corner of her eye Kasimira pick up her teacup to study the leaves as Narcissa had. Oracular nonsense but interesting. Hermione wondered how closely the two women were related. In pure blood circles it was a given there was some familial link but how close was difficult to say.

It was Hermione’s turn to Apparate and she thought that a good thing when she saw the slight tremor in Narcissa’s hands as she fastened her cloak. She took them to wizading Paris, where the air was pink with the setting sun. Always reinforce your lies, Hermione had learned in the war. Cover your ass to put it less elegantly. 

They transfigured their cloaks and strolled to the Louvre, taking a seat in the busy cafe. Narcissa was still brittle but away from the sub-dermal needling, Hermione relaxed. She ordered coffee as she was awash with tea, and pain au chocolat because she wanted something sweet to rid herself of the sour spite.

“You need some nicer friends.” Hermione observed, shrugging out of her coat and wishing she could shed a few hairpins. Parisienne fashion consciousness being what it was no one batted an eye at Narcissa’s attire. Her coiffure was enough to convince them of her elan.

“They are not my friends.” Madam Malfoy corrected, weariness pulling down her mouth into the frown familiar to Hermione from the first time they had met at the Quidditch Cup. “They are my peers. Whether I like them or not is immaterial.” She brushed a floss-fine strand of hair off her face with an avian gesture. “The milieu is not to be denied.”

“Foutez-tous.” Hermione said with studied nonchalance. Narcissa’s pale eyes registered surprise before her poise reasserted itself.

“A novel attitude.” She was bland. Hermione smiled.

“Not so modern as all that. What were you doing in the Sixties? I don’t suppose Free Love was must advocated in wizarding circles.”

“You suppose correctly.” Irritation gave the elder witch a spark of vivacity as Hermione had hoped to do. “We are not so anachronistic as you might think. I prefer a settled life but Lucius in his youth was quite the London man. He did well for us in the Muggle world.” She reflected on happier times only briefly. “It was always there, I suppose, the hate. It is easy to see your kind as rats, a plague scrabbling in filth.”

“Prejudice is magnetic.” Hermione was ready to explain magnetism when Narcissa nodded. She understood about lodestones and it was a good analogy. “We’ll find him.”

“There is very little of him left.” Narcissa stopped to smile automatically at the waiter when he brought the coffee. “I lost him finally when he gave the Dark Lord our son. All the justifications, all the sacrifices were supposed to make the world fit for our child. To make everything right once and for all. Nothing mattered if Draco was taken as atonement. All for a half-blood's pique.”

“It was never about making the world a better place. It was all a salve for an angry man who wanted revenge.” Hermione tore her pastry into pieces with her fingers over her discomfort at rubbing salt into Narcissa’s wounds. The older witch was accustomed to not showing her pain, merely sipping her coffee. Not a cheering conversation. She changed topics. “Have you seen the Mona Lisa?”

When they got there, the gallery was only passingly crowded. There were not many tourists which meant they could wind their way as they fancied. Narcissa seemed actually to be diverted and sighed over Bronzino’s Portrait of a Sculptor.

“Handsome, is he not?” The pure-blood remarked, her eyes on the painting about which she was not speaking.

“Handsome is as handsome does.” Hermione could play this game. “He has not done much handsome by me, historically.”

“The sins of the father.” Narcissa murmured as she studied the young man's enigmatic face. It was disconcerting he was so still, a parody of magical portraiture. “He never laid a hand on you.”

“When we were in third year, I broke his nose.” She was still guiltily pleased about seeing him scurry off cronies at his heels.

“He neglected to mention that.” There was a spectral smile on the older witch's face. The weight of memory exorcised it. “We had an understanding with the Greengrass family. They rescinded our offer for Astoria. Publicly.”

“Seems a bit crass.” And yet they went there for tea. Hermione had never been so thankful to be middle class intelligentsia. To increase her social standing, she could opt to spurn tea parties as bourgeois colonialisms. Though that did not sound any more fun.

“It was, yes.” Narcissa's expression did not change from genteel neutrality.

“When you and your son no longer pariahs, will you offer for her again?” Hermione was curious as there was an undertone in the older witch's voice that suggested vendetta.

“We will not.”


End file.
